The meds
I have been in therapy for almost seven years now, but I always resisted taking an anti-depressant because of all the usual reasons. I come from a Asian-Latin American family (that is the double whammy of medication stigma) where you should not show any weakness, and taking Prozac is admitting that you need help and are not strong enough. I was finally convinced last year after trying to change jobs time and time again but being paralyzed at the thought of an interview. I was so scared to tell my family about it, because in my mind, I would be ranking right below my eccentric aunt who used to wear the same kimono everywhere (and I mean everywhere, and everyday – parties, funerals, that time we went to the theatre to see those Asian acrobats and everyone thought she was part of the crew) and just slightly above the sadly homeless woman who used to run naked through traffic. But, as trite as it sounds, it was one of the best decisions I have made.
I was afraid that the pills would make me be this numb, stepford-wife-esque being, who would only be living life, but not reveling in it. But it was the exact opposite. People who didn’t know I was on the meds told me they could see a change in me — I was more animated, laughing more, a more vibrant version of myself. It’s hard to explain what it feels like. I’m still me, but it’s me on a string of really, really great days. Not to say that there haven’t been drawbacks: I sleep like a bear now and I couldn’t cry for a couple of months. But to me, these were worth not being afraid every day, not calling myself stupid and boring every time I made a mistake, not being tempted to just turn the wheel a little bit more into incoming traffic when I felt all was hopeless. It feels like I’m finally the person I always thought I could be, and I’m loving it.
